Children of Cain
by hiding duh
Summary: Silas, Jack/David. After the plague, the king takes his boys fishing.


I hate you, NBC.

**Title**: Children of Cain  
**Fandom**: Kings  
**Characters/Pairings**: Silas, Jack/David  
**Summary**: After the plague, the king takes his boys fishing.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 1x06.  
**Word Count**: 1000  
**Notes**: I totally cried during the last episode.

*

Fishing in the county of Galilee is strictly prohibited.

But it's Silas' law and he can break it if he so wishes. After all, it would be a crime to stay away when the water is this clear. He thinks perhaps it is clear enough to wash the blood off his hands.

"This isn't a punishment," he says with a drawn-out sigh.

Jack's face is expressionless, but Shepherd's mouth twitches guiltily.

"Sorry, sir."

A thick fog is rising with the dawn, hiding the motorcade lurking on the bridge behind them, so Silas pulls one shoulder back, joints aching, and casts the line downstream.

"Take delight in the glory of labor," he says with poorly hidden amusement, voice strong and steady, then catches sight of Jack's boot driving into a school of guppies. "Jack. They're fish, not Goliaths. _Subtlety_."

"Right now, I'd prefer Goliaths," Jack grumbles, hair flat and limp across his forehead.

Silas inhales, filling his lungs with humid air. "Man has subsisted like this for thousands of years, laboring by his brother's side, with nary a complaint."

"Which is why he died before he was thirty," Jack adds.

Shepherd's mouth quirks again. With a cough, he wades deeper into the creek, scraping his fishing rod against protruding rocks.

Jack's jaw clenches at the hook caught on his jacket and the tangled line around his fingers. "They _need_ us in Shiloh. We should be preparing for—"

"Peace, my boy," Silas announces, turning to watch Shepherd out of the corner of his eye. "Even a man groomed for greatness should set aside a time and a place to unwind." He taps the reel with his thumb, musing, "_Properly_."

Jack winces.

"Got one," Shepherd says calmly, shattering the awkward silence before it has a chance to sink in.

Silas turns with a bright smile. "Already!" he booms. The water sloshes over and into his boots, and he adds, "Take note, Jack."

Jack's eyes darken.

The fish—a wiry troutlet—puts up a good fight, flapping across the shallows and tugging at Shepherd's line, but the boy knows what he's doing. He reels it in, bending only when the fish hangs from the hook between his thumb and forefinger.

"Small," Silas judges easily, "but a start nonetheless."

Without a word, Shepherd dislodges the hook and slips the troutlet back into the shallows.

Jack's forehead creases with interest. His eyes are guarded, but his tone is intentionally flippant when he says, "You wouldn't even make it to thirty."

David's mouth curls up briefly. He curves his wrist with practiced grace, and casts the line upstream. "At least I caught one."

Jack's shoulders tense.

Silas purses his lips, turning his back.

He sat by Michelle's side and will sit by Seth's, so he can, at least, give Jack this. "I have an assignment for you."

Neither boy says anything. The water washes over the rocks by his knees, bubbling around his pants, ready to swallow him whole.

"Both of you," he continues breezily, yanking on his line. "Soon, the good Reverend will be venturing into Gath," he informs them. "He is to meet with emissaries from Sidon."

Jack perks up.

"A true test of loyalty," Silas tells them, letting the line tense with the weight of a catch, "is conducted not in the thick of war but during peacetime." A trout, heavy and brown, breaks surface, slamming against the water and pulling at his muscles.

He makes the death quick; an honorable slaying, in accordance with nature. Out of habit, he sends a quick prayer, in apology and as a precaution, but his hands still feel oddly stained.

Shepherd glances at the carcass and hesitates.

"You want us to accompany him," he says.

It's not a question, and it does not need to be spoken aloud, but Silas appreciates the noise.

"Yes," he replies, rummaging through his pockets. His fingers shake slightly when he slips the lure over the hook. "I trust no one else with this."

Shepherd offers a small nod.

Jack averts his eyes.

Silas has faith in his people. He has faith in God. But he has no faith in his son's future. For Jack, it won't take thirty years. His boy teeters on the precipice _now_.

"How many brothers do you have, Captain?" he asks.

"Six, sir."

Jack draws his elbow back, and lets his line fly loose. It strays in the wind and tangles with Shepherd's.

Perhaps not accidentally, Silas notes.

He is grateful to receive signs. He will not ignore this one.

"You lost a brother," he reminds, and takes no pleasure in Shepherd's grimace. "In my war." The sun breaks through the fog, brightening the stream and bathing the boy in light. "It is only fair I provide you with another one."

Jack pauses, eyes narrowed.

Shepherd's expression is irritatingly modest yet peculiarly fearless. "Thank you, sir."

Jack's eyes connect with Shepherd's.

Silas grips his fishing rod with both hands, relaxing. A crisp breeze brushes against his cheeks. His toes are numb, but his hands finally feel clean.

It is a good sign. And it is a good decision to give his boy this; to give Jack a brother who will take up or lay down his sword for him. Who, if the light fails Jack, will light a candle.

There are laws against this, but they're Silas' laws and he can break them if he so wishes.


End file.
